Chapter 25

Reacher thought the old people’s home was a cheap but sincere attempt to provide a decent place to live. He liked it. Not for himself. He didn’t expect to live long enough. But other people might enjoy it. The décor was bright. The atmosphere was happy. Maybe a little forced. They were welcomed at the reception desk by a cheerful woman who spoke to them as she would to the bereaved, except not exactly. A little livelier. A unique tone. Maybe part of her training. Maybe learned in role play class. As if visitors to an old people’s home made up a unique demographic. Not the recently bereaved. The soon to be. The pre-bereaved.

The woman pointed and said, “Mr. Mortimer is waiting for you in the day room.”

Reacher followed the guy with the ponytail down a long and pleasant corridor, to a set of double doors. Inside was a tight circle of wipe-clean armchairs. In one of them was a very old man. Mr. Mortimer, Reacher assumed. His hair was white and wispy, and his skin was pale and translucent. Like it wasn’t really there at all. Every vein and blotch stood out. He was thin. His ears were old-man big and full of hearing aids. He was strong enough to sit up straight, but only just. His wrists looked like pencils.

There was no one else in the room. No nurse, no attendant, no carer, no companion. No doctor. No other old people, either.

The guy with the ponytail walked over and bent down and crouched low, eye to eye with the old man, and he stuck out his hand and said, “Mr. Mortimer, it’s good to see you again. I wonder if you remember me?”

The old man took his hand.

“Of course I remember you,” he said. “I would greet you properly, but you warned me never to say your name. Walls have ears, you said. There are enemies everywhere.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“How did it end up?”

“Inconclusive.”

“Do you need my help again?”

“My friend Mr. Reacher wants to ask you about Ryantown.”

Mortimer nodded, pensively. His slow watery gaze panned across and tilted up and stopped on Reacher.

He focused.

He said, “There was a Reacher family in Ryantown.”

“The boy was my father,” Reacher said. “His name was Stan.”

“Sit down,” Mortimer said. “I’ll get a crick in my neck.”

Reacher sat down in the chair across the circle. Up close Mortimer looked no younger. But he showed some kind of spark. Any weakness was physical, not mental. He raised his hand, bent and bony, like a warning.

“I had cousins there,” he said. His voice was low and reedy, and wet with saliva. He said, “We lived close by. We visited back and forth, and sometimes we got dumped there, if times were hard at home, and sometimes they got dumped on us, but overall I need to tell you my memories of Ryantown might be patchy. Compared with what you might be looking for, I mean, about your father as a boy, and your grandparents maybe. I was only a visitor now and then.”

“You remembered which kids got sick.”

“Only because people talked about it all the time. It was like a county-wide bulletin, every damn morning. Someone’s got this, someone’s got that. People were afraid. You could get polio. Kids died of things back then. So you had to know who to stay away from. Or the other way around. If you got German measles, you got loaned out to go play with all the little girls. If they were laying blacktop somewhere, you got sent to go sniff the tar. Then you wouldn’t get tuberculosis. That’s why I remember who got sick. People were crazy back then.”

“Did Stan Reacher get sick?”

The same bent and bony hand came up. The same warning.

“The name was never listed in the county-wide bulletin,” he said. “As far as I recall. But that doesn’t really mean I knew who he was. Everyone had cousins in and out all the time. Everyone got shunted around, when the wolf was at the door. It was like Times Square. So in my case what I’m saying is, there was always a rotating cast of characters. People were in and out, especially kids. I remember Mr. Reacher the mill foreman. He was a well known figure. He was a fixture. But I couldn’t swear in a court of law which of the kids was his. We all looked the same. You never knew exactly where anyone lived. They all came running out the same four-flat door. About nine of them from the foreman’s building, I think. Eight at least. One of them was a pretty good ballplayer. I heard he went semi-pro in California. Would that be your father?”

“He was a birdwatcher.”

Mortimer was quiet a beat. His pale old eyes changed focus, looking back years ago. Then he smiled, in a sad and contemplative way. As if at the strange mysteries of life. He said, “You know, I had completely forgotten about the birdwatchers. How extraordinary that you should remember and I didn’t. What a memory you must have.”

“Not a memory,” Reacher said. “Not a contemporaneous recollection. It’s a later observation. Projected backward. I assume he started young. I know he was a member of a club by the age of sixteen. But you said birdwatchers. Was there more than one?”

“There were two,” Mortimer said.

“Who were they?”

“I got the impression one of them was someone’s cousin and didn’t live there all the time, and one of them did. But they were together plenty. Like best friends. I guess from what you tell me one of them must have been Stan Reacher. I can picture them. I got to say, they made it pretty exciting. I guess truth to tell the first time I ever met them I was probably ready to stomp them for being sissies, but first of all I would need to bring an army, because they were the best fighters you ever saw, and second of all pretty soon they got everybody doing it, quite happily, taking turns with the binoculars. We saw birds of prey. One time we saw an eagle take something about the size of a puppy.”

“Stan had binoculars?”

“One of them did. Can’t say for sure which one was Stan.”

“I’m guessing the one who lived there all the time.”

“Can’t say for sure which one that was. I was in and out pretty random. I would find one of them gone from time to time. Or both at once. Whoever you were, you were missing sometimes. You got sent away, to eat better, or avoid an epidemic, or take a vacation. That’s how it was. People came and went.”

“I’m wondering how he afforded binoculars. When times were tough.”

“I assumed they were stolen.”

“Any particular reason?”

“No offense,” Mortimer said.

“None taken.”

“We were all nice enough kids. We wouldn’t break into a store. But we wouldn’t ask too many questions either. Not if something came our way. Nice kids got nothing otherwise. I suppose the thought of anything worse would have been in our heads because of his father. Whichever one was Stan. We all thought Mr. Reacher the mill foreman was a bit dubious. So I guess we went ahead and assumed like father, like son. Even though I didn’t know exactly who Stan was. I suppose that’s the power of rumor. I was only a visitor. It felt like local knowledge.”

“What kind of dubious?”

“Everyone was scared of him. He was always yelling and screaming and throwing punches and knocking people down. Looking back on it, I suppose he drank. He thought people didn’t like him because he was the foreman at the mill. He was half right. All he got wrong was the reason. I guess we other kids imputed all kinds of villainy to him. Like in a storybook at school. Like Blackbeard or something. No offense. You asked the question.”

“Did he have a beard?”

“No one had a beard. It would catch on fire in the mill.”

“Do you remember when Stan left to join the Marines?”

Mortimer shook his head.

“I never heard about that,” he said. “I guess I’m a year or two older. I was already drafted.”

“Where did you serve?”

“New Jersey. They didn’t need me. It was the end of the war. They had too many people already. They canceled the draft soon after that. I never did anything. I felt like a fraud, every July Fourth parade.”

He shook his head, and looked away.

Reacher said, “Any other memories of Ryantown?”

“Nothing very exciting. It was a hardscrabble place. People worked all day and slept all night.”

“What about Elizabeth Reacher? James Reacher’s wife?”

“She would be your grandmother.”

“Yes.”

“She sewed things,” Mortimer said. “I remember that.”

“Do you remember what she was like?”

Mortimer was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “That’s a difficult question to answer.”

“Is it?”

“I wouldn’t want to be discourteous.”

“Would you need to be?”

“Perhaps I should say she kept to herself, and leave it at that.”

“I never met her,” Reacher said. “She was dead long before I was born. I don’t care either way. We don’t need to walk on eggs.”

“Talking about your grandfather is one thing. He was a public figure. Being foreman at the mill. Talking about your grandmother is different.”

“How bad was she?”

“She was a hard woman. Cold. I never saw her smile. I never heard her say a nice thing. She always looked cross. Kind of sour. They deserved each other, that Mr. and Mrs.”

Reacher nodded.

He said, “Anything else you can tell me?”

Mortimer went quiet so long Reacher thought maybe he had fallen into a geriatric coma. Or died. But then he moved. He raised the same bent and bony hand. This time not a warning. This time an appeal for attention. Like a comedian calming a crowd, ahead of a punch line.

“I can tell you one thing,” he said. “Since you jogged my memory. And since your dad might have been involved. I remember one time there was a big hoo-hah about a rare bird. Some big deal. First time it was ever seen in New Hampshire. Or some such thing. The birdwatching boys wrote it up for the birdwatching club. For the minutes of the meeting. Or the report on proceedings. Whatever you call it. One of them was club secretary by then. Can’t say which one. The report was about all the things going on that might influence the bird being there, or not. It was very impressive. I believe it got picked up for a hobby magazine. The Associated Press said it was the first time Ryantown was ever mentioned outside the county.”

“What bird?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Pity,” Reacher said. “It must have been a big sensation.”

Mortimer’s hand came up again.

Excitement.

“You could find out,” he said. “Because of the birdwatching club. All their old ledgers will be in the library. They have a collection. All of those old clubs and societies. Part of history, they tell me. Part of the culture. Personally I thought television was better, when it arrived.”

“Which library?” Reacher asked.

“Laconia,” Mortimer said. “That’s where those clubs were.”

Reacher nodded.

“Probably takes three months to find anything,” he said.

“No, it’s all right there,” Mortimer said. “There’s a big room downstairs, with shelves like the spokes of a wheel. The reference section. They get anything you want. You should go. You could find out about the bird. Maybe it was your father who wrote the note. It’s a fifty-fifty chance, after all. Him or the other kid.”

“The downtown branch of the library?”

“That’s the only branch there is.”

They left old Mr. Mortimer in his wipe-clean armchair and walked the long pleasant corridor back to the desk. They signed out. The cheerful woman accepted their departure with grace and equanimity. They walked back to the ancient Subaru.

Reacher said, “Do you know the library in Laconia?”

The guy with the ponytail nodded.

“Sure,” he said.

“Can you park right outside?”

“Why?”

“So I can get in and out real fast.”

“It isn’t raining.”

“Other reasons.”

“No,” the guy said. “It’s a big building in a parcel all its own. It looks like a castle. You have to walk through the gardens.”

“How far?”

“Couple minutes.”

“How many people will I see in the gardens?”

“On a nice day like this, there could be a few. People like the sun. They got a long winter coming.”

“How far is the library from the police station?”

“Sounds like you have a problem, Mr. Reacher.”

Reacher paused a beat.

“What’s your name?” he asked. “You know mine, but I don’t know yours.”

The guy with the ponytail said, “The Reverend Patrick G. Burke, technically.”

“You’re a priest?”

“Currently I’m between parishes.”

“Since how long?”

“About forty years.”

“Irish?”

“My family was from County Kilkenny.”

“Ever been back?”

“No,” Burke said. “Tell me about your problem.”

“The apple farming folks aren’t the only ones mad at me. Apparently I upset someone in Boston, too. Different type of family. Different type of likely reaction. The Laconia police department doesn’t want its streets shot up like the Saint Valentine’s Day massacre. I’m supposed to stay out of town.”

“What did you do to the people in Boston?”

“I have no idea,” Reacher said. “I haven’t been in Boston in years.”

“Who are you exactly?”

“I’m a guy who followed a road sign. Now I’m anxious to get on my way. But first I want to know what bird it was.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. Why not?”

“Aren’t you worried about the people from Boston?”

“Not really,” Reacher said. “I don’t suppose they’ll be hanging out at the library, reading a book. It’s the cops I’m worried about. I kind of promised I wouldn’t come back. I don’t want to let them down. One in particular. She was an army cop too.”

“But you want to know about the bird.”

“Since it’s right there.”

Burke looked away.

“What?” Reacher said.

“I never saw a police officer in the library gardens,” Burke said. “Never once. Chances are they would never know you were there.”

“Now it’s you getting me in trouble.”

“Live free or die.”

Reacher said, “Just make sure you park as close as you can.”

Twenty miles to the north, Patty Sundstrom once again took off her shoes, and stepped up on the bed, and balanced flat-footed on the unstable surface. Once again she shuffled sideways, and looked up, and spoke to the light.

She said, “Please raise the window blind. As a personal favor to me. And because it’s the decent thing to do.”

Then once again she climbed down and sat on the edge of the mattress, to put her shoes back on. Shorty watched the window.

They waited.

“It’s taking longer this time,” Shorty mouthed.

Patty just shrugged.

They waited.

But nothing happened. The blind stayed down. They sat in the gloom. No electric light. It was working, but Patty didn’t want it.

Then the TV turned on.

All by itself.

There was a tiny crackle and rustle as circuitry came to life, and the picture lit up bright blue, with a line of code, like a weird screen on a computer you weren’t supposed to see.

Then it tugged sideways and was replaced by another picture.

A man.

It was Mark.

The screen showed him head and shoulders, ready and waiting, like an at-the-scene reporter. He was standing in front of a black wall, staring at a camera.

Staring at them.

He spoke.

He said, “Guys, we need to discuss Patty’s latest request.”

His voice came out of the TV speaker, just like a regular show.

Patty said nothing.

Shorty was frozen in place.

Mark said, “I’m totally happy to raise the blind, if that’s really what you want. But I’m worried you won’t enjoy it as much the second time around. It would help me ethically if I could double check your positive consent.”

Patty stood up. Put her hands to her shoes.

Mark said, “You don’t need to get on the bed. I can hear you from there. The microphone is not in the light.”

“Why are you keeping us here?”

“We’ll discuss that very soon. Before the end of the day, certainly.”

“What do you want from us?”

“Right now all I need is your positive consent to raise the window blind.”

“Why wouldn’t we want that?”

“Is that a yes?”

“What is going to happen to us?”

“We’ll discuss that very soon. Before the end of the day, certainly. All we need right now is a decision on the window blind. Up or down?”

“Up,” Patty said.

The TV turned itself off. The screen went blank, and the circuitry rustled, and a tiny standby light glowed red.

Then inside the window unit the motor whirred and the blind came up, slow and steady, with warm sunlight pouring in underneath. The view was the same. The Honda, the lot, the grass, the wall of trees. But it was beautiful. The way it was lit. Patty put her elbows on the sill and her forehead on the glass.

She said, “The microphone is not in the light.”

Shorty said, “Patty, we’re not supposed to be talking.”

“He said I didn’t need to get on the bed. How did he know I got on the bed? How did he know I was about to right that minute?”

“Patty, you’re saying stuff out loud.”

“It’s not just a microphone. They have a camera in here. They’re watching us. They’ve been watching us all along.”

Shorty said, “A camera?”

“How else could he know I just stood up, ready to get on the bed? He saw me do it.”

Shorty looked around.

“Where is it?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“What would it look like?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s a weird feeling.”

“You think?”

“Were they watching when we were asleep?”

“I guess they can watch whenever they want.”

“Maybe it’s in the light fixture,” he said. “Maybe that’s what he meant. Maybe he was saying it’s the camera in the light, not the microphone.”

Patty didn’t answer. She pushed off the sill and stepped back to the bed. She sat down next to Shorty. She put her hands on her knees and stared ahead through the window. The Honda, the lot, the grass. The wall of trees. She didn’t want to move. Not a muscle. Not even her eyes. They were watching her.

Then right in front of her a man peeked in the window.

He was on the boardwalk outside, craning around. Peeking in, one eye. Then he stepped more into view. He was a big guy with gray hair and a rich man’s tan. He stood square on and stared. A frank and open gaze. At her. At Shorty. At her. Then he turned away and waved. And beckoned. And spoke. Patty couldn’t hear what he said. The window was soundproof. But it looked like he said, their blind is up now.

In a happy and triumphant tone of voice.

Another man stepped into view.

And another.

All three men looked in the window.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, an inch from the glass.

They were staring, and judging, and evaluating. Their eyes were narrowing in contemplation. Their lips were pressing together.

They were starting slow, satisfied half smiles.

They were pleased by what they saw.

Patty said, “Mark, I know you can hear me.”

No response.

She said, “Mark, who are these people?”

His voice came out of the ceiling.

“We’ll discuss that very soon,” he said. “Before the end of the day, certainly.”